


Kill Me With A Kiss

by remanth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:36:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/pseuds/remanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wonders at a line in John's poetry and demands it be explained. And demonstrated</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kill Me With A Kiss

For the life of him, John couldn’t quite understand how they’d gotten to this point. Not that he was complaining, mind you, not at all. But this was a shock and a pleasure all rolled into one. Something he’d not let himself want. Something he believed Sherlock would never want. But that’s getting ahead of the story.

It started off as a normal day in 221B. John was updating his blog with their most recent case, something to do with a woman who’d been killed by a snake. It turned out she’d been murdered by her stepfather. Sherlock was alternately pacing around the room, frustrated that he’d solved the case and had no new one yet, and playing his violin. Every step to the side of the room with the couch had him stepping over John’s legs, which were propped up on the coffee table.

“You should eat something,” John said for the fifth time that morning. He’d stopped trying to get the detective to eat during cases unless he went for more than three days without eating. But now that the case was over, John was going to make Sherlock eat if it killed him. “I made tea earlier and there’s some leftover Chinese in the fridge.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock snapped, a tad sulkily. The case was interesting but it barely rated a six. And now that it was over, boredom was creeping up. It made him twitchy, knowing there was nothing he needed to solve at the moment. “I need a case.”

“Eat first,” John advised, letting a bit of his military voice out. “I’m sure Greg or even Mycroft will have a case for you soon. But it won’t matter if you drop from hunger.”

“I won’t “drop” from hunger,” Sherlock snorted, sarcasm dripping from every word as he turned to glare at John. John merely stared back, a pleasantly blank expression on his face. After several seconds of silent argument, Sherlock let out an exasperated huff and stalked into the kitchen. He knew he needed to eat, he really did, he just preferred not being reminded that he was human just like everyone else.

John waited until he heard the footsteps in the kitchen, turning his head just enough to make sure Sherlock was in the kitchen and couldn’t see his laptop. Once he was sure he was safe from prying detectives, John finished up the post he was making and submitted it to his blog. After another covert glance, John opened up his email and reread the message from his current girlfriend.

She was a fan of poetry and liked to send him little couplets and haikus. She’d even recommended some of her favorite poets, which John had found interesting when he’d read through a few of their poems. So far, John had kept himself from writing back with poetry of his own, remembering Sherlock’s scathing commentary on it. That was mostly why he’d wanted to make sure Sherlock was busy before attempting it now.

“Lost in your eyes,

You kill me with a kiss

Heal me with a touch.

Willingly I am burning

While your passions

Tangle with mine.”

John was so lost in the words, trying to figure out exactly what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it, that he didn’t realize Sherlock was standing off to his side. The mumbling had drawn Sherlock back into the living room, steaming cup of tea forgotten in hand. This poem was as nonsensical as the others but something about it drew Sherlock. John continued to whisper the words, putting a different emphasis on them each time.

“That should work,” John murmured to himself, a small smile stretching the corners of his mouth. It was fairly simple and direct, without being vulgar or promising more than he wanted. This poem was something John felt pride for. As his finger hovered over the Send button, John finally noticed Sherlock almost hovering.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, moving to close down the browser. The email was saved in his drafts, though John wasn’t thinking about that now. He was worried about how much Sherlock had heard. But maybe if he distracted the man? “Have you eaten yet?”

“Who were you writing to?” Sherlock asked rather than answering. The Chinese was still in the microwave, the timer set for two minutes. John was far more interesting than Chinese food.

“Vanessa,” John replied, hoping to get out of the conversation by closing his laptop and setting it on the coffee table. “Why do you ask?”

“I heard you mumbling,” Sherlock said, his quicksilver eyes trained on John. “I heard the little poem you wrote. Slightly better than the others but still nonsense.”

“Thank you for that glowing commentary,” John sighed, sarcasm leaking into his voice. “Since it’s for my girlfriend, I think I’ll let it stand as it is.”

Sherlock finally gave into the urge that had grown listening to John repeat the words to his poem. Setting his teacup on the coffee table, he dropped down onto the couch next to John. John shifted uncomfortably, wondering what Sherlock was up to now. But he didn’t leave, letting the detective’s eyes sweep over and study him.

“I don’t understand the lines,” Sherlock finally said softly, as if quiet would keep anyone from finding out there was something he didn’t know. “What’s the point of writing the words if they don’t make sense and aren’t possible? How can a kiss kill?”

“It’s not literal,” John explained, running a hand through his hair. Teaching Sherlock how to interpret poetry was definitely not on his to-do list for today. But the genuine confusion and something else in Sherlock’s eyes kept John seated next to him. “It’s more... exaggeration really. And I’ve had some kisses that were so wonderful they felt like a form of dying.”

“Show me,” Sherlock demanded suddenly, comprehension dawning as the reason why he was drawn to this poem became clear. There was no specific “you” in the poem; it could have been written about him and John. And in a way, it had been. Their passion for danger, adventure, and thrill tied them together more tightly than anything Sherlock had ever experienced before. He ignored John’s confused and slightly frightened expression to scoot a little closer.

“What? Sherlock no,” John protested, still unable to move away from the force of Sherlock’s eyes. “I am not an experiment and this isn’t something we should be doing.” But he wanted to, so very much. There was always something missing when he was on a date and John was always checking his phone. Some part of him wanted Sherlock to interrupt, wanted to rush to the detective’s side. But John had pushed that down, looking for happiness with someone else. Sherlock didn’t want that and John didn’t want to ruin their friendship. But that determined fact started to fade a bit with Sherlock right in front of him.

“Why not? Who better to show me?” Sherlock pressed, letting a small smile cross his face. “I trust you, John, and this is one thing I can’t learn on my own. It’s for science, after all. Please.”

John cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair again. In their time living together, Sherlock had learned exactly what strings to pull to get what he wanted from John as John had learned about Sherlock. The combination of expressed trust and the word please convinced John that he was going to do this. It was something he wanted and maybe if he kissed Sherlock once, he could convince himself it really wouldn’t work.

“Fine,” John finally murmured, looking up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “But I do _not_ want commentary on my kissing. I don’t need you dissecting me.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock replied, a thrill running through him. Now that he’d finally put a name to the warmth and flashes of lightning that he felt, he was impatient. And this explained the anger he’d always felt with John’s girlfriends: John was _his_ and Sherlock didn’t like to share. He sat silently, watching as John gathered his courage and determination. Then slowly, ever so slowly, John leaned forward and cupped Sherlock’s cheek. A gentle pressure caused Sherlock to tip forward as well, meeting John halfway in the space between them. But John paused then, their lips separated by just a few millimeters.

John breathed for a few seconds, feeling as if he was standing on the edge of a cliff looking down. Sherlock’s scent was overwhelming in his nose, something sweet and minty, mixed with the scent of the tea he’d been drinking. Without quite realizing it, John’s other hand came to rest on Sherlock’s knee, squeezing gently. With a final breath, John leaned forward and pressed their lips together lightly. It was better than he’d imagined, late at night when he was _sure_ Sherlock was asleep and he wouldn’t deduce what John was thinking. Sherlock’s lips were soft and welcoming, fitting perfectly against his own. A little, strangled sound was trapped in John’s throat, but it was enough for Sherlock to hear.

And now Sherlock started to understand how a kiss could kill. This simple touch burned, made him feel as if every inch of his skin was alive and trembling. Desperate to feel more, Sherlock leaned further into the kiss, pressing harder and moving his lips against John’s. He knew the mechanics of kissing but had never participated in the act himself. Now, he rather regretted that lack and hoped John didn’t catch on. As he felt John respond with eager kisses, Sherlock let his lips open on a soft gasp. That changed the atmosphere around them, turning something that had been thinly veiled as scientific curiosity into something needy, something wanting.

John kept an iron control on himself, not wanting to push too far for this. But some of that control relaxed when Sherlock gasped against his lips. No longer thinking about being an experiment, John nibbled at Sherlock’s bottom lip. He teased and coaxed, leading Sherlock through the kiss. Finally, unable to stand not tasting, John pulled Sherlock’s bottom lip between his lips and sucked gently. Stroking his thumb over Sherlock’s cheek bone, John let his lip slip from between his own lips slowly. Sitting back to catch his breath, John studied Sherlock. The detective’s eyes were dark, the pupils dilated. He was panting slightly, just as John was and he had a dazed look on his face.

“Well?” John asked softly, pulling Sherlock’s focus back to him. “Does that answer your question?”

“I think I need more data,” Sherlock replied, voice just as soft. “I want to kiss you again, John.”

At the quick nod John gave, Sherlock leaned forward quickly and pressed their lips together again. This time, he licked slowly along John’s lips, cataloging every flavor. They slid closer together on the couch, Sherlock’s hand wrapping possessively around John’s waist to make sure he didn’t go anywhere. And John didn’t wait; he opened his mouth to Sherlock, inviting the detective in. Sherlock was hesitant at first, stroking along John’s lips and dipping lightly into John’s mouth. When John made a noise of encouragement, Sherlock grew bolder and started kissing in earnest. Touch dominated his mind, feeling John breath underneath his hands and their mouths move together. It was perfect and Sherlock had a feeling this was going to be far more addicting than the drugs he’d taken a long time ago.

Soon, all thoughts of experiments and girlfriends left their minds as they wrapped around each other on the couch. All they needed was right here, though it would take time before either would vocalize it. But right now, want and need were shared through touch and kiss and breath. And it was enough.


End file.
